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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27878413">two slow dancers</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/incurableromancer/pseuds/incurableromancer'>incurableromancer</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Old Guard (Comics), The Old Guard (Movie 2020)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Character Study, Dancing, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff, Frottage, Immortal Husbands Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Introspection, Love, M/M, Romance, Smut</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 14:55:18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,330</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27878413</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/incurableromancer/pseuds/incurableromancer</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Nicky wants to run his touches and his kisses and his tongue all over him again, map everything out anew. Warm him again, and again, and again, breathe his love onto his lover’s body forever and always, a heavily trodden path, his favorite of all of the travels he’s taken throughout this long life. The landmarks he loves to visit in his Yusuf’s slender hands, the handles of his waist, the notches between his ribs. Different moles and freckles all over, the sweet spots on his neck and his thighs, those ones so eager for the treatment of Nicky’s kisses, so that Joe can grant him in return trembling muscles under reverent hands and needy sounds from a panting mouth. His soft inner wrists are a particular weak spot, loves to have Nicky so close while he is worshipped, to hold his eye. His lips are a favorite destination, always.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>207</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. nicky / funny how you always remember</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">Nicky is slouched back on the sofa, sated and lazy. Smile playing his kiss-swollen lips, one hand tucked up against his bare stomach, the other behind his head. He feels warm and tingly underneath the orange sunset glow filtering in through the window. Thinks about buttoning his pants back up, or maybe kicking them off entirely. Doesn’t.</p><p class="p1">Joe is a vision standing up in front of him. Naked. A feast for Nicky’s eyes, his muscled backside.</p><p class="p1">The planes of his body are half illuminated by that waning sunshine, a long shadow cast across the chilly hardwood floor. He’s all freckles and muscles and endless smooth skin, comfortable and confident in the space, though the chill of the evening must be nipping at him, now several feet away from Nicky and their makeshift nest of blankets.</p><p class="p1">Nicky wants to run his touches and his kisses and his tongue all over him again, map everything out anew. Warm him again, and again, and again, breathe his love onto his lover’s body forever and always, a heavily trodden path, his favorite of all of the travels he’s taken throughout this long life. The landmarks he loves to visit in his Yusuf’s slender hands, the handles of his waist, the notches between his ribs. Different moles and freckles all over, the sweet spots on his neck and his thighs, those ones so eager for the treatment of Nicky’s kisses, so that Joe can grant him in return trembling muscles under reverent hands and needy sounds from a panting mouth. His soft inner wrists are a particular weak spot, loves to have Nicky so close while he is worshipped, to hold his eye. His lips are a favorite destination, always.</p><p class="p1">Joe’s just set the needle on the record player, hips beginning to sway.</p><p class="p1">It’s a marvel. A beauty that never loses its wonder, its insistent heat and hunger, the utter lack of self-consciousness in the body of a well-worn lover.</p><p class="p1">Joe’s head tips back, turned slightly to the left. The light gives his curls a wonderful depth. Nicky wants to press his nose into them again, smell their warm sweetness.</p><p class="p1">Joe’s singing along now, soft and loose.</p><p class="p1">The sunshine catches over the curve of his neck, shadow sketching a portrait of a dancer warming up as he moves in time with the music.</p><p class="p1">He loves this song, Nicky knows.</p><p class="p1">This is all a show for his own watching eyes, in a way. Insomuch as Joe knows that he’s watching, that he likes what he sees. But it’s more so a mindless act of Joe’s own self. This is Joe at his truest, who he is when he’s alone and when he’s with Nicky, when there’s nobody to impress, really. Only his own heart and soul, his own self and familiarity, mirrored in his other body, his quieter me.</p><p class="p1">Arms raising and crossing above his hand, slender wrists turned out, fingers relaxed save for the delicate point of his index finger, no doubt feeling the music from head to toe. His thighs are shifting with his movements now, left to right to left again, wiggle following through languid and continuous.</p><p class="p1">He cuts a sensual and intimate figure, a gorgeous moving body, quiet joy. A lighter indulgence after a sweet, satisfying, lazy round of lovemaking, stretching himself all out such that the sunlight can have a turn at kissing him all over.</p><p class="p1">Nicky would like to have him again. Wants, but he’s loathe to say or do anything that will put a premature end to this moment, peaceful and spontaneous, miraculous and as ordinary as anyone can be. His beloved, his passion and his heart.</p><p class="p1">Only smiles, instead, warm and sleepy. Watches the dance, this body that he has kissed and touched in every imaginable way, hand drifting lower down his own belly, fingers dipping into his pants.</p><p class="p1">It might be that he hears the rustling of Nicky’s movements, or that the shift has corresponded with the tapering off of the song. It’s the last one on the record, but it’s the only one Joe really wants to hear. He tends to skip to it even though it’ll only be a few minutes before he has to go over to reset the needle, either start it up again or put another record on.</p><p class="p1">He chooses the silence, tonight. Finishes his dance with a full body stretch, arms high above his head, rolling from the balls of his feet up onto his tiptoes. Then, turns and creeps back into Nicky’s lap, soft smile on his honeyed face, beauty well-suited to this lighting, this lifetime, always to Nicky’s eyes. He’s sure as can be, steady in his movements, the love of Nicky’s long life.</p><p class="p1">“Did you enjoy the show?”</p><p class="p1">Nicky hums, wide open palms sliding over Joe’s skin, rubbing over the sunshine heat, pulling him in close so that he can nose at his neck, inhale the warm scent of <em>Yusuf</em>, constant through all these years. The relative novelty of the deodorant on top. A bit of sweat, too. Airy tendrils of sex.</p><p class="p1">“Very much.”</p><p class="p1">Their eyes say more than their words ever will, most often. Though, Nicky thinks that Joe’s heartfelt prose comes very close, sometimes. Certainly can render him just as speechless, his eyes just as misty, his heart just as quick and pounding. His romantic, his lover, his poet.</p><p class="p1">Eye contact is a powerful thing when you know the thoughts running through your beloved’s head as well as you know your own. When sometimes you wonder if there’s any difference at all save for a slight wavering in pitch and inflection, when half of the time the things they say could just as easily have come from between your own lips.</p><p class="p1">
  <em>You’re sexy like this. And very warm. Mm.</em>
</p><p class="p1">
  <em>I want to melt into you over and over. Won’t you keep touching me this way? </em>
</p><p class="p1">
  <em>I love you. Yes, my heart. Always. </em>
</p><p class="p1">
  <em>My life, my moon, my love. Envelop me once again. </em>
</p><p class="p1">Nicky’s pants are pushed to the floor in no time at all, and they lazily tug the blankets over themselves, much more taken with the warmth of each other, arousal flushing their skin once more as they take slow, molten kisses from each other, all tongue.</p><p class="p1">Nicky has read, in various works, times, and voices, that love is a choice. That the real romance isn’t in that overwhelming affection from first sight, nor in the helpless appreciation for each other’s best qualities or the most cherished adventures and follies to be had together, nor even in the best that you bring out in each other. Rather, it is in choosing to stay at each other’s worst. It’s in choosing to stay true to that love when things inevitably become mundane, strained, and quite terrible. When maybe you don’t recognize your other half, nor, even, yourself as their lover and equal.</p><p class="p1">This is a notion to which he has become partial, though of course a love spanning ten times the length of most any other provides for some unique input. Because while it may be a choice, the helping things along when days are dark, he does not find that the love itself is. It’s as much a part of him, as much a part of Joe as their own limbs, which they find grow back no matter how many times they are mangled and destroyed, in this strange existence. It is true, that there are times when they hurt each other’s feelings or entertain the idea of distance. But then it gets late, and they grow sleepy.</p><p class="p1">Yusuf is his warmth and safety, and there is no other choice but to curl into him at night and make sure that he sleeps well, that his dreams are peaceful. To deprive his love of that security would be the same as to deprive himself. There is a surety in the knowledge that whatever bad mood or disagreement lingers in the air between them, it won’t last nearly as long as the pain and wrongness of keeping themselves from each other. Resolution is inevitable. It is only a matter of how stubborn they are willing to be in delaying it.</p><p class="p1">While the relevant actions may be, the love itself is not a choice. Not for them. It’s as simple as that.</p><p class="p1">And, besides, as Joe now laves his tongue against Nicky’s chest, over a spot he likes to bite because it makes Nicky shudder, Nicky is reminded that they have together been choosing to honour their love almost as long as they have acknowledged it at all. It is, after all, their gift and blessing, without a question of a doubt. Their coping strategy, their solace, their comfort. Even while every other aspect of this life falls into question, they are sure of each other, their mutual devotion, the peace and respite they take in it.</p><p class="p1">Joe bites his nipple then, playfully squinting up at him, and Nicky doesn’t bother to hide his besotted smile.</p><p class="p1">“Big thoughts, my heart?”</p><p class="p1">
  <em>You’re distracted. Shall we give it a rest? </em>
</p><p class="p1">Nicky curls a palm around the back of his neck, fingers dipping into thick curls, eyeing pink lips.</p><p class="p1">“Mm. Only thinking about you.”</p><p class="p1">
  <em>I’m good. Kiss me on the mouth to bring me back to the present, if you like. </em>
</p><p class="p1">Joe does.</p><p class="p1">And that’s how they find their release again, wrapped up in each other’s bodies, mouths, and hearts. Wet, breathy kisses, and hands between their close bodies, coaxing each other to another pique. Missing the sunset, save for admiring how the changing light falls against each other’s skin. There will be countless others for them to admire side by side, and countless memories to recount and relive in the meantime.</p><p class="p1">For now, they are finding pleasure, safety, wonder and happiness anew, time and time again, as though they were still young, still infatuated, still the two fighters (lovers) who had just quitted the battlefield together in search of something more sensible, more just, more good and right and sustainable. Hand in hand, heart in heart.</p><p class="p1">In all the ways that matter, perhaps that’s still exactly who they are. The love has certainly held strong and true, remained the same. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. joe / to think that we could stay the same</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>another chapter because i am weak</p><p>cantabile - notation on instrumental sheet music to indicate that the phrase should be played in a singing style, as if to imitate the human voice, or: smoothly, flowing, continuous</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">“Big thoughts, my heart?”</p><p class="p1">Joe shivers, teeth catching on Nicky’s nipple. Those big, miraculous hands are rubbing over his lower back almost absentmindedly as Nicky enjoys Joe’s smattering of kisses to his chest, head lolled back, expression serene as can be.</p><p class="p1">He’s beautiful.</p><p class="p1">Anyone who’s ever met Nicky could comment on how guarded he is in his emotions. Some would say cold, some would say distant. Some would say shy or self-conscious. Joe gets it, in a vague, half-imagined sort of way, how maybe to a stranger he could seem like that. There's no truth to it, though. And, sometimes Joe really likes the fact that nobody else will ever know this man as he does. This man who he met in a fit of rage, screaming ragged at each other, pausing only to crumple in mortal agony before starting up the chase again. There was nothing guarded, shy, or distant about him. Pure passion. Soon after, it was a whirlwind of tearing down and reconstructing world views, and then, of course, coming to terms with a love so great that it cemented those views in concepts of fate and destiny, beliefs that have held true, a love that has gone on strong longer than entire empires have survived.</p><p class="p1">Before Joe ever even knew <em>Nicky</em>, really, he knew his emotions. </p><p class="p1">To Joe, Nicky’s heart is on his sleeve. Strangers see blankness, perhaps a twitch of those perfect lips every now and again that means nothing to them. Joe sees his soul in those twitches. Usually bigger smiles, when it's just them. In the temperature those bright eyes take on, and in the way his skin settles. An open book. Not even a man with his heart on his sleeve, not really. Because Nicky is all heart, if you know how to observe him.</p><p class="p1">And like this, relaxed under Joe’s touches. He’s all <em>love,</em> heart overflowing with it, all quiet ecstasy. The sedative sort, because that’s how Nicky processes pleasure. Lips parted, eyes closed like he’s in awe. Like he's experiencing a revelation.</p><p class="p1">His fingers brush safe and close over Joe’s skin now, almost ticklish in their fluttery contemplation, though the expression doesn’t change. The hands, their absentmindedness, they are how Joe can tell Nicky’s thoughts are sailing far away.</p><p class="p1">The rivers of Nicky’s sleepy eyes open up and shine on him, then, his attention Joe’s own guiding moon.</p><p class="p1">Then, low and sweet and honest, “mm. Only thinking about you.”</p><p class="p1">There’s a particular intimacy in it. The fluidity of the line between whether or not what they’re doing is going anywhere. Nicky has the tumultuous, whirring sort of mind that many quiet men keep under wraps, and his thoughts tend to crash and break and ebb and flow when he’s most comfortable. Which is to say, when he’s cozied up with Joe, relaxed and slowed down and anchored, physically wound down, safe as can be.</p><p class="p1">Orgasms aren’t always necessarily the point of sex, or lovemaking, perhaps might be more apt for their position- not when pleasure in being with your most known, most loved, most cherished strikes deeper than the high of release. Intimacy. The emotional kind, is what it is. Which isn’t to say that orgasms aren’t thoroughly enjoyed, aren’t sought after eagerly and hungrily, even still. Just, it’s different, in many ways. The distinction between the concept of an orgasm, and the concept of sex with Nicky, his love, his everything of a thousand years.</p><p class="p1">In one way, anticipation and edging become great fun, excuses to bask in the teasing, and how well this other person knows how to play you, tune you and wring the sweetest harmonies out as though you were a violin. How they know when to do little more than warm up and pluck out gentle scales, and when to dig in with a thick vibrato, a crescendo so moving and all-encompassing it makes your chest pound, weaving melodies so complex with cantabile phrases that the resolution is a revelation, earth shattering, an art like no other. The song doesn't always have to get finished, though. Sometimes there's comfort and joy in running through a phrase or two, a snatch of melody or lyric, and leaving it at that for the day. A rehearsal, of sorts. Practise, or just little, lazy indulgences, like waking up hard and taking a few minutes to kiss hot and languid and slow before accepting that there isn't really time, that morning. Or just before bed, when the sleepiness is nicely accented with a bit of grinding, before they give in and fall asleep all over each other without having even done anything. Other days and weeks it's a symphony, piques and crescendos again and again and again in different ways. All depends. </p><p class="p1">In another way, it’s being able to recognize when getting off just isn’t suited to the moment, to the mood, to what your person needs. For the first few years, certainly, perhaps there might have been more pride, more self-consciousness, the need for physical intimacy to end in mutual release and satisfaction such that nobody’s feelings got hurt. Quickly though, Joe remembers, he and Nicky got over that. Sometimes their thoughts and needs just lay elsewhere, whether in a conversation or a quiet snatch of each other’s company, well-worn and familiar. Sometimes sex just isn't what feels best.</p><p class="p1">Which is why it’s easy, has been easy for almost their forever so far, to set their mutual interest aside, the way Nicky is hot and hard against his hip. To check in if he even wants to go there right now. If he doesn't, it's completely okay. He won't hesitate to say, and Joe won't hesitate to shift gears.</p><p class="p1">He’s eyeing Joe’s lips like there’s nothing he wants more right now, though, hand come up to scratch gentle fingers through the back of his curls.</p><p class="p1">
  <em>I’m with you, my darling. Thinking about you, and us, across all these lifetimes. Kiss me until the only way I can remember how to do that is by feeling you in my arms, in this moment, please.</em>
</p><p class="p1">Joe slides slowly up his body, delicious warmth everywhere they’re touching. The room is just a little bit chilly, still blanketed somewhat by the sunset heat, though it’s quickly fading away to a cool, inky blue. Joe wishes it wouldn’t. Honey colored lighting lights his Nicky up like the gemstone he is, brings out all the warm tones in his fair complexion, the faint reddish highlight in his hair, a compliment to his flushed cheeks, kissed-ruby lips, a dazzling sparkle over the pools of his eyes.</p><p class="p1">Nicky takes in a shuddering breath that trembles through his entire chest when Joe finally claims his mouth, hands regaining their firm press, loving caresses against Joe’s skin.</p><p class="p1">(Mhm. Definitely still sought after eagerly and hungrily.)</p><p class="p1">Joe emits that unconscious growl that Nicky likes to tease him about, legs shifting until they’re in the perfect position to rock together slowly, pulling back just enough to lick teasingly over Nicky’s mouth while he whines and tries to chase after firmer kisses. His thighs tense, too, belly arching up and pressing against Joe’s when the pressure between his legs hits just right, and Joe finds a hand sneaking around and under his back to caress, to slide down and squeeze Nicky’s ass.</p><p class="p1">Joe’s an artist. Words are one of his many mediums. Nicky, however, on a cozy evening like this- he is not a muse. He’s a masterpiece in himself, perfect and beyond capture, though Joe will keep trying so long as they walk this earth together. Nicky’s also an artist in himself, crafting feelings in Joe’s head and heart and body that surely must be derived from the divine, unique and perfect and true, pathos and pleasure.</p><p class="p1">No, nights like this aren’t for Joe’s flowery prose, as much as Nicky loves to hear it. They are for <em>feeling.</em></p><p class="p1">The flex and tremble of Nicky’s muscles underneath him.</p><p class="p1">The smell of his warmth and his sweat and his arousal, the taste of chocolate and coffee on his breath.</p><p class="p1">The grasp of skilled, precise, loving hands, wandering and caressing and <em>touchingtouchingtouching. </em></p><p class="p1">The rhythm of his needy thrusts, honed and effective.</p><p class="p1">The familiar and yet entirely thrilling sensation of his hungry lips searching out spots on Joe's neck that make him blush.</p><p class="p1">The heat of him. In every way. In every place.</p><p class="p1">The shock of his kisses, loving and invigorating, teeth and tongue and sighs and whimpers, pants and little smiles, and all of Joe’s coherent thoughts flying out the window with a particularly desperate little whine, low and gravelly in Nicky’s throat.</p><p class="p1">
  <em>Mm. Yeah, fuck. Just like that, right there, pleasepleaseplease Nicky. Ooh, yeah, yeah, that’s it, don’t stop, oh- oooh.</em>
</p><p class="p1">Breaths and pulses slowing, melting into each other, flushed skin and heaving chests, fingers twining together. Warmth. Giggles. Smiles. Kisses. Love.</p><p class="p1">Wondering where the sunshine went. Not sweating it because the light of his life is right here in his arms.</p><p class="p2">Finally, the banter afterwards.</p><p class="p1">
  <em>“We’re sticky.”</em>
</p><p class="p1">
  <em>“Mm, but you’re comfy. Perhaps a bath?”</em>
</p><p class="p1">
  <em>“Oh, yes. You’ll have to figure out a reward to get me to let go of you so we can get up, though.”</em>
</p><p class="p1">
  <em>“A reward, right.”</em>
</p><p class="p1">
  <em>“Mmf, kisses- like this- tend to go somewhere, Joe.”</em>
</p><p class="p1">
  <em>“Yes. Somewhere is in the bath. With my fingers. And some nice, slippery soap.”</em>
</p><p class="p1">
  <em>“Okay.”</em>
</p><p class="p1">(Nicky falls asleep in the bath before he gets his reward, leaned back snuggly against Joe’s chest. Barely cracks his eyes open when he’s lovingly towelled off and led into their bed, except when he whines and reaches out for Joe, apparently too slow in joining him underneath the covers, cozying up to his back. It’s okay, though. Joe will let him redeem it another time.)</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>TLDR; joe does a gay little dance, and the immortal husbands still fuck a millennium on. the song was two slow dancers by mitski. a great 21st century joenicky theme, I think. </p><p>tumblr is @ dearpatroclus</p></blockquote></div></div>
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